The Last Leg & The Bad Thing

130 million people take road trips every year. 15,400 of them are never seen again. Have you heard the story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately? A young couple set out on a van life trip, but a few nights in, they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road. I'm not talking about a typical crash, something about this was off. And there's one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side. Not dense, scratches. They stopped, they saw it, and then they left. But here's where things got strange. Not long after creepy things started happening, they began to feel like they weren't alone in the van, like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly, it attaches itself to anyone who encounters it and marks their car with three scratches. And once that happens, it doesn't let go. If these reports are true, this couple didn't just witness something on that highway, they carried it with them. From Andre Overdahl, director of autopsy of Jane Doe, comes passenger. Only in theaters May 22nd, get tickets now. Sturdicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened, or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Phew. Ah, it's good to be back. Feels like I never left. Well, not exactly. But you know what? Close enough. Just happy to get back to things and settle in where I belong. Now, I did have a little chat with the station manager about some things, and unfortunately, it seems like the station has been experiencing some issues with their feed. Sorry about that. Downside of our business arrangement, I guess. I was told that while there could continue to be some interruptions in the future, that the nature of the interruptions shouldn't be an issue. Though he did mention that it will probably still be a good idea to at least take the messages into consideration. Whatever that means. I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about. Well, maybe someone should be. But who am I to say? Let's get to this week's story so I can get back to ingratiating myself around here. First up, from writer A. Hawke and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer, Creepy Presents, The Last Leg. Grandma used to say nothing good starts in a peach-colored sky. She'd say it from her Portraker, the one that groaned like it had opinions, while snapping green beans into a bowl older than my mother. I'd sit on the steps doing my homework, and she'd peer over my shoulder at the horizon, like she was reading something written there in a language I hadn't learned yet. She would point at the horizon with a bean and say that it was God's warning blush, that it means something's starting and won't end clean. She's been right so far. The sky's doing it now. That bruised peach spread like someone took a fist to heaven's soft parts. I'm standing in the town square with 47 people watching me in that particular small town way, where nobody's actually looking at you, but you can feel every eyeball like a thumb pressed to your spine. They hand me the torch at dusk. Mayor Wickham does the honors. His hands liver spotted in the steady as a jeweler's. The torch itself is older than the town or so they say. The woods gone black with age and grip oil and probably blood, that nobody mentions that part in the ceremony. The flame sits on top neat as a trained dog, orange and gold behaving itself in a way that makes my stomach tight. It feels too light, too obedient, like it knows where it's going, and it's just humoring me. Wickham says his voice pitched for the back row of a church that ain't there, that the relay has been a tradition in this town since founding in 1823. Every seven years, a bearer is selected. Every seven years, the flame makes its journey. It doesn't say what happens if the flame doesn't make it. Don't need to. I've seen the memorial plaques, narrow little brass rectangles on the town hall wall, names and dates and something else. Most of them worn as smooth as worry stones. Emma Cartwright, 1837. Thomas Reed, 1851. Sarah Oaks, 1886. And my favorite, the one that made me laugh the first time I saw it. Back when I still laughed at things. Bearer unknown, 1907. They lost the whole person. Just misplaced them like car keys. Wickham places the torch in my hand. His fingers linger a moment. Not affection. More like he's checking to make sure I've really got a hold of it. That I won't drop it the second he lets go. Tells me the path is marked and the destination is clear. To trust the flame. And the flame will trust you. Which sounds wise until you think about it for more than three seconds. Then it sounds like the kind of thing people say right before they shut the door leave you outside with the walls. The crowd doesn't cheer. They don't applaud either. They just watch. But lighten still. The way people stand at funerals. Stiff shoulders, pressed lips, hands folded. There'll be a potluck after I know. Casseroles and sheet cakes and someone's famous seven layer bars. That are really only six. But nobody's got the heart to correct Mrs. Chen after 40 years. Comfort food for the condemned. I adjust my grip with the torch. The woods warm. Warmer than it should be. Look, it's been sitting in sunlight even though we're standing in shadow. Wickham asks me if I have any questions. In all honesty, I have about 600. Starting with why me. And ending with what the fuck is actually happening. But I've learned in the three months I've been stuck in this town that questions don't get answered. They get deflected with another story, another saying, another bit of local wisdom that sounds profound but means nothing. No, sir, I say. He nods satisfied. Steps back and the crowd parts. The path begins. I came to Milbrook because my car broke down. That's it. That's the whole story. No dark family secrets, no inheritance from a mysterious uncle. No vacation gone wrong. My transmission gave out on Route 47 about two miles outside of town limits. And I limped into the garage on hope and neutral. The mechanic, a man named Dale, who had exactly four teeth and infinite patience said it should take two weeks. Maybe three. Because he's got to order the parts special. I should have called the tow truck. Should have hitched to the next town. Should have done a lot of things. But Milbrook had a diner with good pie and a motel with clean sheets. And a library with paperbacks that still had that old book smell. And I was tired. So tired. I'd been driving for two months, actually. Picking up ships where I could, sleeping in the back seat. Running from nothing in particular. And everything in general. The kind of tired that makes bad decisions feel like rest. So I stayed. Got a job washing dishes at the diner. Rented a room at the Pine View Motor Lodge. Which had neither pines nor a view. But did have hot water and a landlady who didn't ask a whole lot of questions. The town collected me quick. That's what small places do. They gather you up whenever you want, collecting or not. Add you to the inventory. Make space for you in the ledger. Within a week, people knew my coffee order. Within two, they knew I didn't like talking about where I came from. Within three, they stopped asking. I should have known that was a bad sign. People who stop asking questions aren't being polite. They're being patient. Then came the knocking. The first mile is easy enough. Dust and crickets and the smell of cut grass going to seed. I walked through Old Town, where the houses lean into each other like drunk sharing secrets. Porch lights flicker on as I pass. Not motion sensors. Just people lighting the manual one by one. Making my progress. I see faces in windows. Mrs. Applewhite on Birch Street. Her face pale as candle lights. The Hugh twins on the corner. Both sets of eyes tracking me in perfect unison. Old man Garrett standing in his doorway. Mason jar in hand. Watching me in the way you'd watch a horse you'd bet money on. None of them wave. The air smells like rust and wet leaves. Decades of the same families living in the same houses. Cooking the same recipes. Repeating the same stories until truth wears down to a smooth, comfortable shape. I passed the pharmacy where I bought aspirin last week. Hardware store word Dale sent me for a fan belt that never came in. Post office where the clerk always asked if I was expecting mail. Like it was a test I kept failing. Every place knows me. Every place has made room for me in its records. My breathing's already getting heavier. The torch weighs more than it should. Or maybe I'm just weaker than I thought. Three months of diner food and bad sleep catching up to me. The street curves. The houses spread apart. Trees press in. That's when I hear them. Footsteps. Solved as a church lady's whisper. Careful as a cat on a fence. Matching mine. Beat for beat. I don't look back. Around here folks have a saying. If something follows you after dark, let it. Which sounds wise until it's your neck tingly and your shadow walking double and your breath going shallow in your chest. I keep walking. And the footsteps keep following. The knocking started on my second week in town. Seven taps. Always seven. Always the same rhythm. Quick as a heartbeat counting down. Pause. Seven more taps. Pause. At first I thought it was a radiator. Then the pipes. Then maybe kids playing pranks. Though Milbrook wasn't the kind of place that had kids who pranked. Had the kind of kids who said yes ma'am and mowed lawns for five dollars and went to bed at 830. The knocking came at night. Always after midnight. Always when I was right on the edge of sleep. A soft place. Where you're not sure if you're hearing things or dreaming them up. I'd sit up and listen. Nothing. And lie back down. I mentioned it to Dale one morning. He was under the hood of a Buick. Hands black with grease. Not looking at me. He said that old buildings settle. For two hours straight. He answered that by saying old buildings settle slow. I let it go. But that night I stayed awake. Sitting in the dark with my back to the wall. Watching the door. The knocking came at 1247. Right on the door. No mistaking it. I stood across the room. Put my hand on the knob. Press my eye to the peephole. Nothing. Just the empty walkway. Yellow bug light. A ma'a throwing itself at a bulb with the dedication of the deeply stupid. Right on the fucking door. Right in front of my face. But there was nothing there. And I ganked it open. The walkway was empty. And the night was still. The motel stretched out quiet on both sides. And on my door. At eye level. Was a mark. Pale. Chalky. Like someone had dragged a fingertip through dust. Seven lines. Four vertical than a slash. Then two more. Like tally marks. Like something was counting down. The air changed after the first mile. Go sweet. Rot sweet. Like someone left to pie out too long and the fruit inside went soft and wrong. The footsteps behind me are closer now. Close enough I can hear the slight drag of a heel. The way the pace adjusts when I adjust mine. Whatever's following me isn't trying to hide anymore. It's just staying back there. Patient. Waiting for. For what? For me to run? To turn around? To drop this thing? My left calf cramps suddenly. A hot twist of muscle that nearly sends me to my knees. I bite down on a gasp and keep walking. Limping now. Dragging that leg like it belongs to someone else. The torch wobbles in my grip. The flame flickers just once and I grip it tighter despite the cramps screaming up my leg. The woods hot now. Actually hot. Like I'm holding a brand fresh from the fire. But I don't dare let go. Trust the flame, Wickham said. I'm starting to think it was less advice and more prayer. The street lights are gone now. Just moon through branches. Just shadow on shadow. Just the path winding ahead into the trees that all look the same. The roads gone from pavement to gravel to dirt. To something that might be a path. Be a path. Or might just be where nothing grows. Sweat runs down my back despite the cold. My breath comes in ragged poles that sound too loud in the quiet. Cold touches my spine. Not wind. Too deliberate for wind. A tap. Light is a spider landing. Then a stroke. Like fingers checking the grain of wood before carving. I walk faster. The thing behind me matches pace. The trees close in. Trunks thick as cars. Roots humped up through the path like the earth's spine showing. The flame throws wild shadows. Makes everything look like it's moving. Leaning in. Breathing. My lungs burn. Each breath is work now. Real work. The kind that makes spots dance at the edges of my vision. Ahead the ground slopes up. The hill. The one the teens dare each other to climb at night. And always come down from pale and quiet. If they come down at all. They don't talk about what they saw up there. They just stop laughing as much. Stop staying out late. Start going to church. At the top sits the altar. I can't see it yet. But I know it's there. Everyone does. A stone bowl. Wide and shallow. Blackened with centuries of something nobody talks about. The town calls at the renewal site in the official documents. Call it other things in private. The debt. The keeping place. The reason we're still here. My legs ache. Both of them now. That deep muscle fatigue that says you've gone too far and your body's done pretending. The hill's steeper than it looked from below. And the path's barely there anymore. Just a suggestion in the dirt. I have to lean forward. Use momentum. Keep my weight over my feet or I'll topple backward into whatever's following me. My breath comes in gasps now. Harsh and wet sounding. The torch wavers. My grip slipping with sweat. Despite the cold eating through my jacket. The flame burns brighter. Hotter. Eager. Like a dog that finally spotted its real owner. Behind me the footsteps stop. The silence that follows is worse. I keep climbing. They came for me on a Tuesday. Now with pitchforks, sir, torches. This isn't that kind of story. They came with casserole dishes and kind smiles. And patients that felt like walls closing in. Ms. Applewhite knocked first. Holding a 9 by 13 of something involving cream of mushroom soup. Fried onions on top. She said she'd heard I'd been having trouble sleeping. Wanted to bring me a little something. Because comfort food helps. I hadn't told anyone that. She handed me the dish. She was warm. I took it because refusing felt dangerous in a way I couldn't name. Thank you, I said. She smiled. Touched my arm. Her hand was cold. She said that I would do just fine if the town had faith in me. Before I could ask what that meant, she was walking away. Her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the concrete. That casserole sat on my counter for three days. I didn't need it. Something about it felt wrong. Not poisoned. Worse. Like eating it would be agreeing to something. Then came the Hugh twins with cookies. Then old man Garrett with a six pack of beer. Then Dale, finally looking me in the eye with nothing in his hands at all. He told me that the part came in. For my car, I asked. To which he replied, yeah. So I can leave. He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said I could. Could. Not can. Or I said. He replied that I could stay. Be a part of things. Help the town the way the towns helped you. I watched dishes for minimum wage. That's not the town helping me. That's me earning. He then said the relay is coming up. And just like that, everything clicked into place. The knocking, the mark on my door, the casserole, the cookies and kindness. They'd been counting, measuring, choosing. I'm not from here, I said. His response was to let me know that that's exactly why. The top of the hill opens up into a clearing that feels older than the trees. The grounds bear rock, smooth like water wore it down over centuries. The altar sits in the center. The stone bowl, wide as a kitchen sink. Blackened on the inside with char and older stains. I'm gasping now. Doubled over. One hand on my knee while the other keeps the torch upright through sheer stubbornness. My legs are shaking. My legs are shaking. Trembling so hard. I can hear my jeans rustling. And beside the altar stands it. I don't have words for what it is. Human shape the way a scarecrow is. If the scarecrow was built by something that had never actually seen a person. Just heard them described over a bad phone line. Too tall. Joints bent wrong. Limbs that look carved from driftwood and dark intention. It doesn't move. Doesn't need to. Its presence is enough. I straighten up. Trying to catch my breath. Trying to look like I'm not about to collapse. My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt. The flame in my hand roar suddenly. A sound like hunger. Like recognition. The thing turns its head towards me. The sound is wet. A click like a jar lid breaking its seal. Bring it here. The voice doesn't come from its mouth. If it has a mouth. The voice comes from everywhere inside my skull from the ground beneath my feet. Locals like to say a voice can curdle milk. This one could curdle bone. I should run. Every animal part of my brain is screaming at me to drop the torch and run. Get back down the hill. Get back to my car. Get out of this town and never look back. But my feet kept moving forward. One step then another. My right leg nearly gives out and I catch myself. Stumbling. The torch dipping low before I haul it back up. Because I know. The way you know things in nightmares. The way you know things when you're drowning. That running won't help. Whatever deal this town made. Whatever debt keeps it alive. I'm part of it now. I was part of it the second my transmission died on Route 47. The second I decided to stay. The second I was too tired to keep running. Behind me. Something sighs. A thing that followed me up the hill. I still don't look back. I don't dare. The creature at the altar opens its arms. The torch heats up in my hand. A little too eager. A little too alive. Mom always said that if you're walking toward trouble. Walk like you're meant to. So I do. Across the clearing each step. An act of will over collapsing muscle. Pass the point of return. Right up to the altar's edge. My vision swims. I'm not sure if it's exhaustion or fear or something in the air up here. Something that makes reality feel thin and feeble. The flames burning white hot now. Searing my palm. But I won't let go. The debt. The thing says. Not a question. The debt. I reply. Because what else is there to say? I lift the torch. The fire leaps from the wood like it's been starved for centuries. Like it's finally going home. It pours into the stone bowl. Filling it with light that's wrong to look at. Light that makes colors I don't have names for. Behind me. Something screams. A sound sharp enough to slice the night itself. High and terrible. An ending in a gurgle that might have been words once. The thing that followed me. Thing that's been following this town for 200 years. Waiting. Feeding on the ones that don't make it. The ones who drop the torch or run or refuse. The light flares. The scream cuts off. Silence again falls like a curtain. When I finally turn around. The path down the hill is empty. No footsteps. No shadows moving around. Just darkness and trees in the distant lights of the town below. A claim made. A debt paid. A name removed from the ledger. Probably mine. Wouldn't be the first time this town forgot someone politely. The officials step out from the tree line like they've been there all along. Maybe they have. Mayor Wickham, Ms. Applewhite, Dale, the Hugh twins, others. All wearing the same calm expression. The same Sunday usher face. As if we just finished a bake sale. Wickham says that the relay is concluded and thanks me for my service. My hand throbs where the torch burned it. I look down. But my skin's unmarked. It's not even red. What now? I ask. Ms. Applewhite smiles and says that now I go home. Get the rest that I've earned. And in seven years. She replies that in seven years they'll find someone else. Someone new. Someone passing through. Someone lost. I say. Dale says yes. Someone lost. But not unkindly. They start walking down the hill. And I follow because there's nowhere else to go. At the bottom of the towns let up warm. I could smell the potluck from here. Casseroles and cakes and Ms. Chan's famous six layer bars. By glance back once. Fresh footprints lie in the path. Two sats going up. Only one coming down. And there. At the tree line. Barely visible in the dark. A figure. Watching. Waiting for the next runner. The next bearer. The next person who's just tired enough. And just lost enough to stay. Behind it. Others. Shapes. Shadows. The ones who didn't make it. Emma Cartwright. 1837. Thomas Reed. 1851. Sarah Oaks. 1886. Bearer unknown. 1907. And now I suppose whoever I was before. That became what I am now. They'll write my name on a plaque or they won't. Either way I'll be here in seven years. Standing in the square. Watching the next person take the torch. Watching. Waiting. Making sure the debt gets paid. Some things don't need following home. The old timers say. They know where you live. They know. Because they never left. 130 million people take road trips every year. 15,400 of them are never seen again. Have you heard the story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately? A young couple set out on a van life trip but a few nights in they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road. I'm not talking about a typical crash. Something about this was off. And there's one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side. Not dense. Scratches. They stopped. They saw it. And then they left. But here's where things got strange. Not long after creepy things started happening. They began to feel like they weren't alone in the van. Like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly it attaches itself to anyone who encounters it and marks their car with three scratches. And once that happens it doesn't let go. If these reports are true this couple didn't just witness something on that highway. They carried it with them. From Andre Overdahl, director of autopsy of Jane Doe, comes passenger. Only in theaters May 22nd. Get tickets now. Don't you worry, Dotty. Not everyone needs to know how to read. You have other reasons to be here and those make you just as worthy as the rest of us. Don't you fret none. I had tried to find reassurance in her words but couldn't. There was a sourness left inside me. A deep-rooted worry that my lack of knowing how to read made me fall short to the rest. You can cry all you want. Doris ran a shiny nail across her other fingers. But a trade is a trade and unless you've got something. I'll do it. I said pushing myself up to stand. My legs aching from the chores I'd done earlier. A blister still oozing on my palm from when I'd mucked the pigpen. I just want you to leave me be. That's all I ever wanted. To be left alone. To not be given all the damned chores the others didn't want. Mary gives Shelley what she calls spicy grape juice. Which she made somewhere out back where I never dared to go thanks to the rooster. Lucy went out into the world to earn her keep. She was the one who brought home the bacon. Which I thought was stupid seeing as I was the one who had to cut the meat off the fat beasts. Doris didn't do much of anything really other than run her mouth of course. Eddie whom I considered my only friend at this point said she was pretty and that would help us in time. Not just yet. She ain't quite ripe enough. Whatever that means. I found it odd that the only one who seemed to earn their keep here was me. Well everyone else sort of just lived here. Eddie said it was on account I'd been given the shoulders of a working man. And that ain't no one else here do it Dottie. I wait until Doris leaves watching her clean pants swish around her feet as she steps carefully around the soupy muck of her yard. I trudged to the old cellar. The door soft and rotten from rain. Already my throat clenches as I hoist one of the doors open. There's a foul stench that rushes up at me. There is hot and cares with the smell of human stink. Let me out. The voice is wet and slick like snot. If curdled was a sound it would be the sound of that voice. Let me out. My feet are heavy as I stomp down the stairs. The slaps sloshing nearly over the rim until I slow my steps reminding myself how long it takes to get the stink out of my clothing. I paused at the last step wondering if Doris had intentionally waited until the sun was below the treetops taking with it the warm glow of the day. The cellar is dark and stinky and void of light altogether. Even on the brightest of days there is no light down here. But prefer to do this chore when I can raise up the stairs out of the stinking dark. The sun sometimes washes away that chore better than any shower ever could. I stand still listening to the sickly swallows and gulps that hiccup out from the darkness. The floor is soft as I leave the stairs being careful not to lose my balance against the uneven stretch of wet dirt. There is something like laughter bubbling in the farthest corner of the cellar. Here's your supper. I say flinching at the way my hands nearly dropped the bucket onto the ground. I hurl the slop in the general direction of the awful noises. A stray splash of it hits my cheek and I want to cry out but I don't. Instead I shake the bucket the best I can with my sore arms and hope to Jesus himself. Enough of the slop has hit the floor. I'm halfway up the stairs when I pause. I can see the sky from here. Fat clouds have started building up into a promising storm for later. I turn, listening to it eat. To the bone sharp drag of old fingers clawing up the dirt where the slop has landed. I listen for two heartbeats before stomping my way back to the outside. Slamming the door shut before throwing the old board down onto the lock. I don't look back as I drop the slop bucket and run back to the house. Inside the air smells like pig. I hate it. And at dinner I do not help myself to the slabs of ham Shelly has prepared. I pick at the peas and potatoes. I don't bother to complain when they give me washing chores for the plates and pans. When it's time for sleep I pretend not to hear Doris and Lucy talking. They've each had two glasses of Mary's special juice. They say I'm too young to have it. They talk of things that I find either boring or things I just can't understand. They talk of men, of propositions and proposals. Things that sound quite dumb to me. I wish they would talk about the bad thing. About when it might be let out and can leave again. I shudder. Even in the warmth of my blankets, when I think of the bad thing, there seems to be no warmth that can reach me. When I finally sleep I dream of the bad thing. It has gotten out from the cellar and has made it into the house. In the dream it goes to the room with the babies. I watch like a spider on the walls it eats them. It's long, sinewy arms moving like wet ribbons. In the morning I am back with the pigs. One of them is sickly as it sulks around the pin. I feed the others before taking the sickly one to the cellar, sending it down the old stairs. I think there's something like a chatter of giddy laughter. It reminds me of how babies laugh with their mamas. I slam the door shut and wonder if anyone saw me do it. Shelly doesn't like it when we waste the pigs. But I think it makes the most sense to just do away with the sickly ones. Like how she used to do with the chickens when we had them. When I see Doris later on in the afternoon she's wearing a dress that seems much too pretty for our little farm. Shelly's behind her and she's braiding a yellow ribbon into Doris' hair. Lucy has smudged a bit of red stuff on Doris' cheeks and for a minute I think Doris looks like mama the most of us all. Eddie stands behind me in murmurs. She's about right now. Any day, Dottie. I wonder what he means. Not knowing things makes it harder when you can't read. Lucy takes Doris in Daddy's old car and Shelly tells me that she's off to do some work. I snort laughter at that. I don't even try to hide it from Shelly. Doris has never been much for working. Shelly doesn't say much to my laughing. It occurs to me that I'm missing something. But I don't have time to think about it before it's time to finish my own work. It's my turn again to feed it. Shelly takes the bucket behind the house and when she comes back it's heaped full of more of that slushy slop stuff. It stinks worse today and I assume it's because the sun was hotter. Shelly agrees before going inside to start supper. At the cellar I don't go right in. Instead I sort of peer into the darkness. I'm waiting for the pig but it never comes. So it eats pigs then. Not just slop. I think before stomping down the stairs. This time the slop does slush out and lands in a hot ooze on my shirt. In the darkness I can hear it mumbling. The words are fat and full and I think of the dream of how it had been hunched over the crying babies, slurping them up arm by arm, foot by foot. I shake my head and step onto the floor. Today the darkness seems a bit lighter and I can almost make out the tall, odd shape of the bad thing. I feel a cold shiver as it stands still, perhaps regarding me in the same way. I hope you like the pig. I say. My arm shaking at the weight of the bucket as I hoisted up and out. The contents landing on the floor in chunky plops. When Doris comes home her cheeks are bright circles of pink and her eyes are puffy. The red color is gone from her lips and the ribbon pokes out of her pocket. I ask Lucy if she had fallen down but Lucy tells me to let it be. Later on Eddie says she'll be alright. Looks like she was ripe enough after all. That night we ate burgers. It tasted so good I nearly cried. I can't even remember the last time I had cow instead of pig. Shelly dotes on Doris more than usual. She dotes on her quite a bit already and I can't help but feel sour at the sight of everyone pampering and babying her. When it's time for bed Lucy gives her something in a teacup and tells her to help her feel better. I fall asleep to the sound of the babies crying for mama. I think Doris is crying too. I knew I would be dreaming again even before I fell asleep and in the dream the thing from the cellar is back in the house only this time it does not go to the room with the babies. It has come to my room Doris's room. In my dream I'm in my bed and I am not a spider on the wall. In my dream I am watching through wide eyes as the thing slips into my room. It is tall and wiry. This time it's made of old sticks and twigs and sludgy mud that seems to ooze off of it. It stands at Doris's bed but I think it watches me. When I wake up there's a trail of black slime at both our bed sides. On my bed there's a strange and long handprint stained into the old quilt. The morning is filled with raindrops as big as a cat. The whole farm turned into a pond and I have to practically swim my way to the pig pen. I can't help but watch the cellar more today. It is when I'm mucking the pen that I hear its strange and slimy voice. Let me out, daddy. I can make it better. Just let me out. I can bring back mama and daddy. Would you like that, daddy? Just let me out. Its words haunt me the rest of the day. When Doris and Lucy come home Lucy says no one should talk to Doris. We have steak for supper with more sides than I know what to do with. Shelly whispers with Doris and I pretend I don't see the green paper. Real dollars. Doris hands to Shelly. Eddie gives me a grim look from the corner of the room. As if to say, she's earning her keep now, daddy. I still don't understand. Maybe I never will. At bedtime Doris sleeps in Lucy's room. She's crying more than the babies do these days. I like to think she doesn't walk around so smug anymore. When I say this to Mary, she smacks me and I try hard not to cry. I hate crying, but I hate even more that Mary struck me. I feel confused and mad. When everyone is asleep, except the babies of course, who never seem content now that mama is gone, I find myself standing at the front door. I don't know why, but I want to go to the cellar. Eddie seems deeply troubled by this. He lurks in the corner of the room and tells me to go back to bed. Stop being foolish, daddy. I tell Eddie to mind his own business. But I do go back to my bed. I don't have any dreams at all that night. The next day my mind can't seem to stop thinking of the day the bad thing came. It was the same day Eddie came too. It had been Mary who'd found the bad thing. She'd been being strange and had been busying herself reading from her peculiar books. Books Shelly said had no business being in our home. When Mary read those books, I always thought terrible things happened. But the strangest thing of all was when the bad thing had come. We had only just buried mama and daddy a week before. All of us still hurting and confused and lost as to how to survive without them. Then Mary had said she would be saving our farm, that she would find a way to make it all better. Then the bad thing came. Then came Eddie. And Mary and Shelly locked the bad thing in the cellar and we all had to swear with spit on our palms that we'd never, ever talk to it. Shelly had then made Mary throw away all her strange books. After that Mary didn't speak to anyone for a while. When I asked about Eddie, Shelly had given me a strange look. It was the look she had sometimes when something was confusing her. She never said anything about Eddie. I was grateful they hadn't locked Eddie away too. Eddie said he hadn't meant to come. That he sort of just got swept up along with the bad thing and found himself here on our farm. No matter how much I asked, Eddie would never say where he was before he turned up here. Still though, I'm grateful for his friendship. Odd as it may be. Later on one of the babies becomes sick. Shelly does not make supper and instead takes the baby to town for the doctor with Lucy. When I ask if I'm in charge of feeding the bad thing, Mary tells me yes. But she never fills the bucket with that nasty slop stuff. I wait a while, even until the sun is nearly down and the heat from the day is gone. I worry that the bad thing will come out if I don't feed it. I almost ask Doris what to do. But all she does is cry now, curled up like a dog and won't look at anyone. I decided to take a pig from the pen, one of the smaller ones, and bring it to the cellar. It's too dark to hardly see anything, but I managed to make my way down the steps. The pig under one arm as I inch my way down the stairs. I know I should be afraid, but I'm not when I see the bad thing has bright yellow eyes now. I think about the things it said, and almost ask if the words were true. Before I can, there's a loud scream from inside the house. I drop the pig and hurry up the stairs. I don't look back before slamming the door shut and locking it. Inside Doris has gone as white as a sheet and her mouth is a strange color. Mary is the one who is screaming. Her loud sounds make the baby who isn't sick start to cry. I want to cry too, but I can't. I'm too busy looking at Doris. I can't help but wonder how she keeps her eyes open so long without blinking. Mary doesn't stop screaming until Shelly comes back with Lucy. There is no baby with them. I watch as Shelly and Lucy carry Doris outside. They tell me to stay put and won't let me follow. I stand at the door. They're hard to see in the dark, but I'm certain they're taking her to the cellar. When I hear the heavy door open, I know I am right. When Shelly and Lucy come back in, they are crying. Shelly sends me to bed because I keep asking too many questions. It takes too long before I can sleep, and I am grateful there are no dreams. Shelly and Lucy are not here when I wake up. I find Mary in the kitchen reading the books I thought she'd gotten rid of. She said she figured out what went wrong. She also said she was going to set everything right. She tells me to go outside to let her work. She keeps promising things will be better soon. When I leave to do my chores, I hear her start talking all funny words that don't sound like words at all, almost like she's saying a poem. When she started it, the baby started crying, and Eddie said something awful is fixed into happen. He stands in the corner of the room still. There's no ignoring the look of worry on his pale face. I know I shouldn't, but I went to the cellar. Doris was on the stairs just inside the door. Her head was rolled back like she was hoping to see the sky, a fly crawling across her glossy eye. Deeper inside the cellar, I can hear the bad thing. It is talking the same way Mary had been, and I feel a terrible chill stir up my insides. I make my way to the muddy pin, count the pigs, we are down to four, all of them too healthy to give to the bad thing. I worry what will happen if it does not eat. I consider going to the back of the house, but Eddie stands behind me and reminds me of the mean rooster. There's something like a rock sitting deep in my chest and I'm not sure what to do. From where I stand outside, I can hear the baby cry. I can also hear the slick and slippery voice of the bad thing, even all the way by the house. When afternoon comes and the day is blistering hot, I find Mary standing outside the baby's room. She has a strange look on her face and her hands are deep in her pockets. She tells me she knows how to fix things. She even says she can make Doris better. I told her Doris looks an awful lot like mama and daddy did. I remind her there was no fixing them. Mary tells me I'm a good kid, which I find a little odd. Then says since I've been so good at taking care of the farm, I can have some candy from her special box. I ask if I can have the candy from the kitchen instead, but she says no. Eddie says the candy from the box isn't real candy, and will make me sleepy. But I eat it anyway. I haven't had candy in a very long time. The candy from the box doesn't taste very good at all. Eddie was right, and I did get sleepy. I don't even remember falling asleep, but when I ate the candy, it was bright outside. When I woke up, it was almost dark and the house was the most quiet it has ever been. I walked through the house feeling sickly, but I cannot find Mary anywhere. Even worse, the cribs are all empty in the baby room. Shelly and Lucy aren't home either and there's a strange smell all around, like someone cracked open a dozen sun-spoiled eggs. I'm worried about the bad thing and who might have fed it, but when I go outside the cellar door is wide open. When I see this, it feels as if a thousand spiders have invaded my bones. In the kitchen, I can see Mary and Doris standing up back through the little window. Doris is blinking again, but her skin is still white as a sheet. I don't know how, but she knew I was looking. She turned her head and when it kept on turning like an owl's, I nearly fainted. Eddie stands in the corner and tells me to be very quiet. He says I shouldn't hide. I think Eddie is fixing to run away soon and I wish he'd take me with him. He says he can't. That things like him and people like me can't go to the same places. He says if I'm good, maybe one day I can go where he goes. I fell asleep while I was hiding and when I woke up, the smell of spoiled eggs was all around me. When my eyes opened, I screamed. The bad thing had found me. It was standing right over me. Its eyes were like big yellow moons. Mary and Doris were there too. Mary said I was a good kid. She said that everything was going to be all right. The bad thing took my hand. It was like holding a pile of sticks and bugs covered in sludge. She tells me over and over everything is going to be just fine. Fine like sunshine, daddy. The bad thing clicks and creaks when it walks. It's like a walking tree. But if the tree were made of dead things, I don't think it is sticks in my hands that I hold. I think they are bones. I want to scream when it begins walking us towards the cellar, to the black door that stands wide open like a greedy mouth. Mary and Doris do not go into the cellar with me in the bad thing. They stand to the side and Mary tells me over and over it will be just fine. That everything will be all right now. I realize Mary must have done another trade. But I am too scared to think about what she could have traded to make everything better again. The bad thing whispers things too fast to understand as we walk down the stairs. Doris glares at me the same way I glare at the pigs. I wonder if they are going to do to me what I do to the sickly ones. I hope I am wrong. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit CreepyPod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative commons share a light licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the Creepy Podcast production team and the stories author. Today's episode is presented by Corporate Retreat in theaters May 22nd via Western film services and passage pictures. Described as a gory mix of the menu and saw corporate retreat centers around a group of young executives whose luxury team building trip descends into a bloody fight for survival against a vengeful retreat leader played by the inimitable Alan Ruck. At the center of this horror comedy is an eclectic cast that also includes Odea Rush, Sasha Lane, Ashton Sanders, Zion Marino, Kirby Johnson and Rosanna Arquette. Aaron Fisher directs from a scripted Koro with Carrie Lee Romeo with special makeup effects handled by Candyman and Scream4Meistro, Gary J. Tonacliff. You'll laugh, you'll cringe, you'll cover your eyes. When corporate retreat hits theaters May 22nd, get tickets now. In the alley, the scent is stronger, overpowering. As I watch, the overhead lamps flicker and wink out one by one. God damn it. No. The girl appears briefly under the last streetlight, the headphone snug against her ears, the Walkman clasp to her hip. She's oblivious as she walks, lost in her own world. Hey stop! I need to talk to you! Then she swallowed up by the darkness again. Helen, wait a second! It strikes her in the gloom so fast she barely has time to scream. She falls into the edge of the lamp light and lies there, bleeding, motionless. The man's skin is scaly, flaking, and there are patches of soot on his cheeks. He stares at me with eyes like midnight. Eyes that are devoid of remorse, devoid of humanity. He's one of them. I turn and run, and I don't look back. The Road of Shadows, a new mystery and suspense audio drama by Mark R Healy, creator of The Strada. Listen now at TheRoadofShadows.com